The Fifth Dagger

Chapter Twenty-One: Usurper

The air in Mirkwood's End hung thick and murky, muffled by the twisted boughs of ancient trees and the stench of damp earth. Clouds gathered low in the night sky, casting the small village in an otherworldly gloom. Lanterns on worn posts flickered fitfully, struggling against the darkness. The villagers had long retreated to their homes, shutters bolted against whatever shadowed figures passed through their village that night.

Hidden on the Garibaldian side of the border between Volgard and Meliah, Mirkwood's End lay shrouded in secrecy—a perfect site for the alliance of deceit about to unfold.

Several cloaked riders emerged from the forest's edge, their horses' hooves silent on the soft ground. They came to a small, half-crumbling inn at the village's center. The tallest among them, his imposing frame draped in dark Garibaldian silk, dismounted with a practiced ease that belied his advancing age. His raven-colored cloak flowed around him like spilled ink. This was King Tyros of Garibaldi, the lord of Volgard, and an enemy known for his patience and subtlety.

Beside him dismounted a figure equally cloaked, his eyes icy and watchful: Lord Malreth, the Deceiver, one of Meliah's most cunning lords who had pledged his loyalty to Tyros long ago, though none suspected the full extent of his allegiance. With them are Garibaldi's five elite knights, dead loyal to the King of Kings.

Last came another figure, a man younger than the rest, dressed in the emerald green of Aeneah. Prince Hektor, eldest son of King Rothgard and heir to the throne of Aeneah, scowled as he dismounted, his every step radiating frustration barely contained behind a stoic mask.

The three men entered the inn with minimal ceremony, nodding to the silent knights, who remained outside in watch, and slipping into a private back room. It was as humble as it was discreet—shadowy corners hid the walls, a single table waited in the center with only a faint candle to light their conspiratorial gathering. The door closed, and the soft clink of a lock followed.

Tyros' voice was low, weighted with menace. "Welcome, Prince Hektor," he said, his gaze fixing on the young Aenean prince with an unblinking, almost predatory stare. "It is good to finally have you among us."

Hektor gave a curt nod, his face a mask of grudging compliance. The bitter resentment he bore, however, was unmistakable. "I'm here because of Jethro," he said, spitting the name as if it were a curse. "It's one thing for him to take the admiration of my people, but to earn my father's love as well?" His jaw clenched, a mixture of anger and bitterness darkening his eyes. "The son he never had... those were his very words, spoken more than once."

Malreth let out a quiet, knowing chuckle, his voice as smooth as oil. "You have been wronged, Your Highness, and you deserve justice. And we are here to ensure that you will have it."

Tyros inclined his head. "Indeed. Jethro has basked too long in the favor of the Aenean king, to say nothing of his privileged birthright in Meliah. And King Adron—arrogant as he is—he thinks the Fifth Dagger is his to wield?"

"Isn't it?" Hektor interjected, his brows knitting. "I thought he denied its very existence."

"That," Tyros replied, leaning forward, his fingers steepled as he spoke, "is exactly what makes the truth we're crafting so powerful." His voice dipped, a hiss barely louder than the crackle of the candle. "Once our story has spread across Aesleron, it won't matter what Adron claims. All of Aesleron will see him as a threat. He will be branded a usurper, a man who covets the realm by wielding forbidden power."

Hektor's expression faltered. He looked between the two conspirators. "And... how exactly do we expect people to believe that? There isn't a soul who has laid eyes on this dagger. They'll have no reason to believe Adron even possesses it."